


Residual

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Biting, Blood, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, Inline with canon, Jealousy, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Rough Kissing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Then he sees the figure leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest and eyes closed behind familiar glasses, and Hanamiya’s graceful footing seizes itself into a stumbling halt as the solid support of expectation is kicked out from under his feet by instant recognition." Hanamiya has a reunion with his senpai after Kirisaki Dai Ichi's loss.
Relationships: Hanamiya Makoto/Imayoshi Shouichi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	Residual

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crownsandbirds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/gifts).



Hanamiya wants to break something.

It would have been nice to manage it during the game. Seirin is the kind of team he hates the most, with their bright-eyed faith in each other and disbelieving shock when confronted with the facts of reality digging an elbow into their stomach or crushing down over the arch of a foot. Hanamiya has been looking forward to this match, to the chance to stomp the bleeding-heart naïveté right out of Seirin’s too-trusting members; to have his anticipation answered with the sharp-edged loss of both his own goals and the game is more than he is able to bear in peace.

His teammates steer well clear of him. They know him too well to make the mistake of getting in his way after a loss, especially a loss to Seirin of all teams; even during the forced sportsmanship of the post-game lineup Hanamiya is left alone on one end, with a visible gap between him and the next closest member of Kirisaki Dai Ichi. He’s left facing Seirin’s captain, whose glasses are as unbroken as his spirit, and when the other extends his hand Hanamiya lets his arms hang heavy at his sides and gives him the scowl that is the only kind of acknowledgment Seirin will ever get from him.

Hanamiya leaves the gym as soon as he can. The tournament hall is full of people, the bleachers packed with an audience he ignores as blithely as he disregards the rules that are meant to provide a leash to the kind of rough play he has taught his team to use, but the onlookers will be waiting for the conclusion of the last game of the tournament or taking the direct path out of the building, which leaves the expanse of the upper levels wholly absent of the audience that Hanamiya wants to distance himself from. Even if he runs into someone they are likely to be alone, isolated from friends or wandering lost through the halls, and right now Hanamiya thinks he might even welcome the interruption for the satisfaction that might be gained from the simple pleasure of sinking his tight-curled fist into the soft of a stomach or the side of a face. His pace slows with the thought of it, easing from his hunched-shoulder fury into something a little slower, a little more inviting, and if he doesn’t lift his head to toss his hair back from his face that doesn’t stop his gaze from sliding sideways through the curtain of shadow to take stock of his surroundings. There is no one around him that he can see, no indication of footsteps approaching from around the enormous curve of the tournament gym’s upper levels; but then there’s a movement in the shadow of one of the side hallways, the motion something Hanamiya sense as much as sees, and his attention is caught immediately.

Hanamiya doesn’t know what it is that catches his eye. It’s the sleeve of a coat, maybe, or maybe the scuff of a shoe barely brushing against the smooth-polished floor, that speaks to the truth of someone else ducking down the adjourning hallway. It doesn’t matter. It’s enough that it’s another human being to serve as a grounding-out point for the rage that is clenching at his chest and burning in his throat, and when Hanamiya veers away from the main pathway to follow the shadow down the side corridor he can feel anticipation rising in time with his adrenaline, lifting his chin and slouching his shoulders under the heavy, languid expectation of the violence to come. He rounds the corner, striding forward into the hallway with as much calm confidence as if he’s been invited there; and then he sees the figure leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest and eyes closed behind familiar glasses, and Hanamiya’s graceful footing seizes itself into a stumbling halt as the solid support of expectation is kicked out from under his feet by instant recognition.

Hanamiya is deliberate in his actions. He knows what rules he is breaking on the basketball court, and knows who is and isn’t watching when he snaps them in two. He knows what expectations people have of him, knows the sort of absurd sob story his opponents expect to hear when they try to find a reason for his actions, when they look for some logic beyond the simple truth of entertainment that guides all his decisions. Hanamiya’s mind is always skipping out into future possibilities, reeling out paths he might follow until even his most immediate actions are more considered than instinctive. But in the first moment of recognition his mind is dragged backwards, trapped in a cage built of past memories, and when his lips part to breathe a “ _Senpai_ ” it is only in the echo of his own voice, half reverent, half terrified, that he realizes he has spoken at all.

Imayoshi cocks his head towards Hanamiya, still standing at the end of the hallway between the shadows falling over him and the illumination of the rest of the gym. The corner of his mouth tightens, pulling up against the line of his lips with a tension that Hanamiya feels like fingers flexing to test the shape of his own throat clasped beneath them. “Hanamiya-kun,” he purrs, a mockery of formality over the resonant possessiveness of that voice on those syllables, that tongue tasting the shape of Hanamiya’s name. He straightens from the wall behind him to turn and face Hanamiya as he lowers his arms to his sides and slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

The words are as casual as his tone, with nothing more alarming than the lingering affection of an upperclassman for his junior. Hanamiya’s shoulders tighten, his legs flex on the impulse to move, to jolt into action at the first opportunity of distraction even as his mind tells him he won’t get it, that Imayoshi’s inattention is never anything more than a trap to catch those unwary enough to take it at face value. “What are you doing here?”

Imayoshi’s eyebrows lift, his head tips to the side. “Is it so hard to believe that I wanted to see my kouhai’s basketball match?”

The question doesn’t need a reply. Hanamiya’s breath still gusts from him in a harsh laugh of answer. “You never cared before.”

Imayoshi’s smile goes wider. “Oh, Hanamiya,” he drawls in the back of his throat. “Did you really think that?” He steps forward, closing the distance between them—not safe, never safe, with them at either end of it—with easy, unhurried strides. Hanamiya stands still, frozen at the end of the hallway, his body tense with a reflex to run that the weakness in his knees can’t answer to. Imayoshi doesn’t hurry, doesn’t rush closer; he just approaches, slow and easy and inexorable, and Hanamiya stands still, watching the other’s approach without moving even when Imayoshi is right in front of him, so close that the open front of his uniform jacket is brushing the sweat-sticky hem of Hanamiya’s game jersey. Imayoshi frees a hand from his pocket, raising it up through the air with all the grace of a dance as Hanamiya watches the length of his fingers, the span of his palm, and memory calls up the  _ crack _ of a slap across his face, his throat works as if to remind itself of its freedom from the strength of that hold gripping tight around it.

“Hanamiya,” Imayoshi says, his voice low, and dark, and so hot it bleeds the strength from Hanamiya’s muscles and demands the surrender of his knees slamming to the floor beneath them. Hanamiya locks his knees against the impulse, not caring about the surge of lightheadedness that follows the pressure or the grit of his teeth as he sets his jaw. Imayoshi’s smile goes wider, glittering like a knife in the shadows of the hallway; and his hand settles, wrapping around to curl at the back of Hanamiya’s neck and pin the loose strands of the other’s hair against the heat-sweat slick at his skin. “I  _ always _ care.” His thumb draws up, tangling into Hanamiya’s hair as it presses over the rounded curve of the other’s skull, as his palm cups to cradle the fragile, soft space at the very back of Hanamiya’s neck.

Hanamiya has his chin angled downward, has his gaze twice-over shadowed by the fall of his hair and the heavy dark of his lashes angling over his eyes, but he’s still watching Imayoshi’s face, his focus caught irrevocably against the razor edge of the other’s lips even as Imayoshi lets the threat of his smile lower into neutrality and draws a breath to heave a sigh of gentle frustration. “I  _ am _ sorry you lost,” he says, and the pressure of his hand makes the words true in spite of the put-upon sympathy of his voice. “It’s a shame, really.”

Hanamiya can feel his swallow struggle for motion in his throat as he fights his way towards coherence. When he drags his voice free from his chest it is raw, rasping open and bloody with its own mortality. “Yeah,” he says. “Seirin doesn’t seem like the type of team you’d cheer for.”

Imayoshi’s eyebrows go up again. “Seirin?” he repeats, and then barks a laugh that tightens his fingers hard where they’re bracing at the back of Hanamiya’s head. “Oh, I don’t care about Seirin at all.” He angles his head to the side as his laugh gives way to that lopsided smile again, the one that pulls tighter at the corners of his eyes than it sits at his lips. “But I  _ was _ hoping I’d get the chance to crush you myself.”

Hanamiya’s throat goes tight, his breath sharply strangled by the surge of heat that courses through his exhausted body and shaking limbs. “ _Senpai_ ,” he groans, his voice creaking unsteady as it tears free of his chest, and his hands are coming up, his fingers reaching to clutch fistfuls of the front of Imayoshi’s coat as he cants forward to crush his mouth against the bared blade of Imayoshi’s.

Imayoshi doesn’t even flinch. His smile is easing as readily as Hanamiya’s mouth finds his, his mouth softening and lips parting so Hanamiya’s forward motion is answered with the drag of Imayoshi’s tongue claiming the salt from his lips and pressing forward into the dark-heat shadows of his mouth. Imayoshi’s wrist flexes, his hand tilts Hanamiya’s head back as he leans forward, and Hanamiya hisses some noise between protest and pleasure as Imayoshi shifts his weight forward to step into dominance over the submission he has so casually wrenched Hanamiya into. Hanamiya’s grip is cramping-tight, fists crumpling the smooth line of Imayoshi’s uniform coat into disarray as his sweat stains the fabric; Imayoshi’s is steady, cool and calm and unbreakable in the force of his fingers and the angle of his wrist bearing down at the back of Hanamiya’s skull. His tongue fills Hanamiya’s mouth, pressing down against Hanamiya’s efforts to reciprocate and taking easy appreciation of the open tilt of the other’s head; Hanamiya feels himself pinned down while he still remains on his feet in open air, trapped as thoroughly as if Imayoshi’s skin is the clinging spiderweb he once named Hanamiya’s style of basketball. Pressure builds in Hanamiya’s throat, a knot too tight for him to unwind into the identification of a scream, or a moan, or a plea, and in the choking heat filling his mouth, blood, body, impulse seizes under the grip of Imayoshi’s hand to flex against his jaw and bring his teeth together to bite against Imayoshi’s tongue in his mouth.

Imayoshi’s reaction is immediate. He pulls back, slipping free of the edge of Hanamiya’s bite with the instant speed of reflex, and Hanamiya is still sucking back a breath of shock at the loss when Imayoshi’s mouth tightens to brace at the soft indentation of his lower lip. There is a sharp force, sudden and shocking as the stab of a knife, and Hanamiya jerks involuntarily as Imayoshi’s teeth dig hard into the fragile skin of his lip. His throat tightens on a shout, a yelp of what intends itself as pain, but as Hanamiya pulls back Imayoshi’s teeth fix him still, and the flare of pain as his own reflex tears blood into his mouth crushes the note in his throat into a rattling moan as he comes back forward to ease the pressure of Imayoshi’s bite. Imayoshi holds him there for another moment, hand at Hanamiya’s head and teeth still pulling Hanamiya’s lip taut as blood fills his mouth and copper tangs at the back of his throat; it’s only once Hanamiya has gone slack that Imayoshi lets him go, and then the release is all at once, a dropped hand and a sharp step back so Hanamiya’s hands are sliding free of their hold while his mouth is still throbbing with the afterimage of Imayoshi’s lips on his.

“You haven’t changed,” Imayoshi says. He lifts his hand to wipe Hanamiya’s blood off his mouth as easily as if he’s brushing crumbs off the front of his coat. Hanamiya stares at him, his torn lip throbbing in time with his heartbeat and his mouth burning with the taste of his own blood and the friction of Imayoshi’s tongue hot and heavy against his own. Imayoshi looks at the smudge of color at his wrist, considering, before bringing it to his mouth to run his tongue over his skin and sweep it away. Hanamiya blinks hard and sets his jaw on stubborn determination to stay on his feet as Imayoshi lowers his hand to smile at him again. “That’s good.”

Imayoshi turns to the side, moving in clear intent to return to the rest of the gym, and Hanamiya takes a breath to rasp words past the taste of blood coating his throat. “Is that it, senpai?”

“Hmm?” Imayoshi turns his head to look at Hanamiya again, eyebrows raised on surprise. “Did you expect something more?” Hanamiya turns his head to glare at him and Imayoshi curls a smile onto his lips. “Not this time. I’m afraid my teammates are waiting for me to join them. I have other troublesome kouhai to deal with now.”

Hanamiya huffs a breath out of his nose and turns his head aside to hide his face behind the weight of his hair while he lifts a hand to gently press against his fast-swelling lip. With his head down he doesn’t see Imayoshi take a step in towards him, doesn’t see the movement of the other’s arm coming up to wrap around his shoulders; it’s only when there’s a palm pressing to the side of his face to pull him stumbling in against Imayoshi’s chest that he catches an inhale of shock, and then Imayoshi’s lips are pressing to the hair falling over his ear and Imayoshi’s voice is shivering against his skin.

“Don’t worry,” Imayoshi says, murmuring the words so Hanamiya feels them pour like syrup clinging sticky to the line of his throat and down the span of his chest. “There’s never anyone like you.” Hanamiya’s chest tightens, his hand comes up to close vicious-tight around Imayoshi’s elbow around his shoulders, and Imayoshi laughs in the farthest point of his throat and leans in closer, until his body is pressing flush to the heat of Hanamiya’s basketball jersey.

“Come to watch our game against Seirin.” Imayoshi’s foot shifts between Hanamiya’s; his knee tips forward, his thigh urging between Hanamiya’s own, so for a breath Hanamiya can feel the flex of muscle in Imayoshi’s body seething heat up his spine and fixing to a knot down in the depths of his belly. “I’ll finish what you started, Makoto.” Hanamiya’s hand tightens convulsively, his fingers squeezing hard against the tender joint of Imayoshi’s elbow, and Imayoshi laughs against his ear and draws back and away like he doesn’t feel the press of Hanamiya’s grip on him, like he doesn’t notice the other’s fingernails scoring bruises down his arm through his coat sleeve as he pulls away. Hanamiya is left standing in front of him, staring at Imayoshi from beneath the weight of his hair as Imayoshi gives him a smile that might pass for bland to someone who doesn’t know how sharp the teeth behind it are. Imayoshi cocks his head to the side and lifts a hand in a wave. “See you then, Hanamiya-kun.”

And he’s moving away, past Hanamiya and out of the corridor, to stroll out into the clear illumination of the main hallway of the gym. Hanamiya is left to stand in the shadows, mouth bleeding and cock aching heat as he listens to the sound of Imayoshi’s footsteps echoing off the walls of the gym.


End file.
